Peninsula of Tranquillity In the Fifth Avenue Sea

By SAMUEL G. FREEDMAN,;

Published: May 3, 1991

AMBITION abounds at the Peninsula Hotel, and I do not mean the crass extravagance that usually passes for it in the form of revolving restaurants, vertiginous atriums of the Hanging-Gardens-of-Babylon variety. This hotel, open barely one year, aspires to something more genuine and risky, the emulation of two esteemed ancestors.

One is the Gotham Hotel, whose Beaux-Arts building at Fifth Avenue and West 55th Street the Peninsula inhabits; the other is the Peninsula's Hong Kong namesake. Now, I cannot claim any affinity for the Gotham, although habitues tell me that through the 1960's its lobby cocktail lounge defined the conviviality of the three-martini era. As for the original Peninsula, I am unabashed in my adulation.

Long before I could remotely afford a room there, I would devote several hours of any visit to Hong Kong to drinking Pimm's Cup and reading The South China Morning Post in the hotel's bustling lobby bar. And when my wife and I married, we spent the first week of our honeymoon in the Peninsula, savoring complimentary fruit and champagne and watching the Star Ferry cross the harbor outside our window.

So as I rode a taxi down to Manhattan's Peninsula, there to meet my wife for a weekend, I had to wonder: Could this child prove worthy of its parentage or would it be the tourism equivalent of those pathetic pretenders I remember from the blues clubs of Chicago, claiming to be Muddy Waters or Howlin' Wolf Junior .

Some doubts were assuaged when a bellman waded into rush hour traffic to guide my taxi to the entrance, and whisked my bags from the trunk before I had even paid the fare. The lobby was a delight with its Art Nouveau armoire, inlaid wood tables, and trompe l'oeil mural. Checking in consumed only seconds, ending with the self-effacing request, "May we trouble you for an imprint?"

Our room, perched seven floors above 55th Street, fetched $225 a night at the weekend rate, the lowest figure in a hotel whose doubles reach $385 and suites extend from $430 to $2,500. Still, we never had the sense (as we had, for instance, in Rome's Inghilterra) of being shunted into a glorified closet.

Sheer balloon shades covered the windows. The bedstead, desk, chair and mirror were matched pieces of Art Nouveau. So wide and deep was the bathtub we only wished for a launching ramp to ease entry. In sundry drawers we discovered maps for mass transit and jogging routes, shopping bags and a lint brush, certificates for two free glasses of wine in the bar. And the room radio was tuned to "All Things Considered," more than even a National Public Radio groupie such as myself could wish.

But surely the most winning element of our room was the sleek black gadget called the Inncom IR 2020, a sort of combined speaker phone, radio and personal computer. Merely touching a button, one could learn the time in Dubai or Bangkok, adjust the thermostat, converse with the concierge in any of six languages. The Inncom did everything but launch a smart bomb.

Still, we found some evident flaws. In a room of such carefully designed furniture, the bedside table was, beneath its cloth, made of particle board. The tariffs for the mini-bar were an outrage -- $7.50 for an airline bottle of Jack Daniels, $8 for Remy Martin, and $12 for a moderately sized Mason jar of cashews. Most irritating, when we had reserved the room nobody had told us there were non-smoking units available, so when we checked in we found ourselves in what smelled like the Edward R. Murrow Memorial Lounge.

Between the aroma and the price of the mini-bar liquor, we made for the Gotham Bar in the lobby. With its arched windows and pastoral frescoes, its deep couches and overstuffed chairs, this place had the amiable bustle of a private club. The crowd ranged from bow-tied Britons to Japanese tourists, their Fendi bags brimming, to a Boy George wannabe. (Does even Boy George want to be Boy George anymore?) New York not being Hong Kong, I eschewed Pimm's in favor of a vodka martini, and it was so flavorful and copious that I ordered a second, which voided the need for alcohol with dinner.

There is no reason for the usual tourist to dine in the hotel's restaurant, since this region of midtown includes such personal favorites as Darbar and the Manhattan Ocean Club. But being dutiful sorts, my wife and I crossed the lobby to Adrienne's, a large room with rather too many pillars and mirrors, and rather too few customers. The service and food both pleased us, especially a grilled veal steak with green peppercorn sauce, but a bill of $121 for a meal without cocktails or wine struck us as dear, if not punitive.

It seemed paradoxical, then, that the next morning we could enjoy the Peninsula's health club and spa for a total of only $20. This glass-enclosed facility, occupying three floors at the top of the hotel, by itself made the weekend memorable. I entered the changing room to the strains of a piano concerto and admired the louvered mahogany lockers and peach marble shower stalls. The exercise choices ranged from a pool to Nautilus machines to all manner of cardiovascular contraption. My wife chose the Lifecycle, myself a treadmill, and we sweated away to the diversion of Cable News Network on three televisions and 360-degree views that stretched for miles. On the Avenue <>